Just One Yesterday
by BobbyP
Summary: John's thoughts as he watches Sherlock's plane come back at the end of series 3 :) (Johnlock fic. Sorry. Not sorry)


And suddenly, the plane was touching down again, and he was so conflicted and confused and amazed and everything that had happened over the years since he left Aghanistan were whizzing through his head, blurry and distorted, like he was seeing them through an unfocused lens. Sherlock, winking at him on the the day they met. That air of mystery he carried with him. John, not even pausing to question his decision. He knew he would follow him anywhere.

And for the first time in his life, John was alive. Everything was new and exciting and dangerous, and it was all because of Sherlock Holmes. And suddenly, his anxiety, and his PTSD and the crippling depression that had set in after being discharged from the army were all gone. It was like he'd been running, but he wasn't going anywhere, like something was holding him back, and meeting Sherlock shattered it, like reality shatters a dream.

He saw his life flash before his eyes, and all he could see was him.  
>Sherlock.<br>It wasn't like dying, it was more like being reborn, as he watched the images flash before him.

It was all those moments in the flat where the line between friend and lover became blurry.  
>It was all those times he'd catch Sherlock smiling at him, even when he wasn't looking.<br>It was every time Sherlock went on a case and all he could think was '_**God, let him be okay**_'.  
>And it was wondering if those were the type of things a friend would think about.<p>

It was him shooting a man dead to save his friend's life. It was that feeling in his stomach when he first saw Sherlock with Irene Adler, and it was the way he spent days trying convince himself that it wasn't what jealousy felt like. He hadn't wanted to give him Irene's phone, but Sherlock was his friend, and so, he did. He hadn't wanted to see Sherlock scared, but he had. And even as Sherlock told him he didn't have _**friends**_, all John wished was that he could have protected him.

**And there was the fall.**

And there was the return of his depression. There were the long nights, filled with echoes of memories too painful to recall. The void in his chest, the tears in his eyes, and the constant wish that the door would swing open and the lanky detective would once again sprawl unceremoniously on the sofa. There were the razors. And the pills. And his gun, all lined up. But he could never bring himself to do it. And he hated himself for it. He hated his cowardice. He hated his will to live when everything else was dead. Even his friend. His Sherlock.

But, he recalled, as he woke from an alcohol-fueled slumber, Sherlock had never been his. Sherlock was his friend. No more.

Of course, that thought alone could not stop the pain. It couldn't stop the aching, and the wondering 'what if?'. It couldn't stop his imagination from acting out all the various little scenarios that could reunite them. And it didn't stop the constant searching for answers.

And John didn't stop hating himself.  
>He called in sick to work and sat at home, staring at the wall. He lost all interest in everything. In life, in death, even in Sherlock, in the end. When he met Mary, John Watson was in a living coma, with nothing more to interest him than to reflect on his own misfortune, and to reassure himself that Sherlock could make it better. Because when Mary arrived in his life, John had reached the fifth stage of grieving; Acceptance.<p>

And he had accepted that he had been in love with Sherlock, all along. It was killing him. But she made it better.

It wasn't enough for him to be happy, though. Oh no, it couldn't be. Because on the very day that he decided to give up on Sherlock and marry Mary, the woman who had done so well by him, who should return but one William Sherlock Scott Holmes?

Things eventually settled down again, as he knew they would, but he would often catch fleeting glances from the detective as they went about their days. Brief glimpses into the taller man's soul that made John wish he'd never started this whole marriage thing. He loved Mary, and he knew he did, but the way Sherlock made him feel would never truly subside. But that was okay.  
>He was going to marry Mary and he was going to be happy.<br>There were the nights in the flat when it really was just the two of them against the world, and where laughter would fill the void of silence between them. And there was the night before John's wedding, when John thought he might finally confess how he felt about Sherlock.  
>And the day that followed, where John made sure that would never happen.<p>

And then, that feeling in his stomach returned when he saw Sherlock and Janine together.

He had begun to wonder if he was cursed. Even Mary had lied to him. His dear, sweet Mary who had put him back together when he was so broken, a liar, like the rest. He had felt like he was falling apart again, but he had stuck it out, he'd made things right with Mary, and they were going to try again. After all, she was pregnant with his child. He could have the family he always wanted.

Or, at least, that's what he had thought, when they sent Sherlock away. So why was he so sad? He could have everything he ever wanted with Mary, so why was he so hung up on his friend? Why was the only thing he could think '_**Don't let me lose you again**_'?

And suddenly, the plane was touching down again, and he was so conflicted and confused and amazed and everything that had happened over the years since he left Aghanistan were whizzing through his head, blurry and distorted, like he was seeing them through an unfocused lens. Sherlock, winking at him on the the day they met. That air of mystery he carried with him. John, not even pausing to question his decision. He knew he would follow him anywhere.

And all the anger and the sorrow and the vision of his future with Mary swam around in his head, until finally, only one thought remained. The first thought. The only thought he needed.

_**He would follow him anywhere. **_


End file.
